


Auld Lang Syne

by Lady In A Tux (CollateralDamage666)



Series: Holidays at 221B [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Almost Kiss, Drinking, Friendship, Holidays, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 04:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollateralDamage666/pseuds/Lady%20In%20A%20Tux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since Sherlock's return from the grave, things haven't been exactly the same.</p><p>New Years Eve at 221B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Auld Lang Syne

**Author's Note:**

> I am not from England and I know shit about their traditions. I literally researched it for about an hour to try and get this as British as I could. I still probably failed.

To say that John had a hangover the morning after Christmas would have been an understatement.  It felt as though someone was going at his brain with a jackhammer.  He groaned and rolled over, keeping his eyes shut.  He knew what just a sliver of light could do to him if he dared peek.  He forgot about that for a moment when he heard a returned groan from the other side of the bed.  His eyes shot open and he stared at a familiar, messy head of dark, curled hair on the pillow next to him.  He blinked, rubbing at his eyes and rolled over to look at the rest of the room.  He was in Sherlock’s bedroom and Sherlock was in bed with him.  When had this happened?  What had happened between them?  Where- no.  The most important question was: Wasn’t Sherlock dead?

He was about five seconds from a panic attack, followed closely by heart failure when bits and pieces of the night before came rushing back, slamming into him like a train.  He felt woozy, but extremely hungry.  A brief memory of puking his guts up came to the surface and he groaned, rolling onto his back and throwing an arm over his eyes.  There was another groan from the other occupant of the bed and Sherlock shifted, twisting around in the covers to sit up.  John didn’t move from his position, arm still over his face in a dramatic position.  He knew Sherlock was looking at him, but he didn’t want to look back.  Weight left the bed and he heard Sherlock’s bare feet pad to his side of the bed.

“I’ll go make you breakfast,” when John didn’t talk, he continued, “I think eggs, a banana, and some orange juice are in order.”

That got a small smile to quirk at the edge of John’s mouth, “Yeah, thanks.  Didn’t take you as the kind of person to know what foods to take after a night of drinking.”

“It’s just simple science.  Your body-“ John cut him off with a wave of his arm, finally bringing it off his face.  He looked up at the taller man with a shake of his head.

“I’m well aware what the body does, Sherlock.  I’m not a doctor for nothing.”

“Of course not.”

John shifted and groaned, setting his feet down on the floor.  The groan turned into an embarrassed whine when he realized he was sleeping in his best friend’s bed in nothing but his pants.  Sherlock, sensing he needed some space now, moved toward the door, grabbing his blue dressing gown from where it had been hanging up for all those years.  He threw it on and it was as if the man had never left.

“Get some clothes to change into and quickly take a shower.  Breakfast will be done by then,” the door closed behind Sherlock and John let out a sigh, flopping back down onto the bed again.

Half an hour later he found himself sitting at the cleared off table in the sitting room, slowly eating the eggs on his plate.  He was already on his second glass of orange juice, his mouth parched.  He briefly wondered where all the objects that had been on the table went until he spotted a stack of papers next to the sofa, his laptop resting on the arm of the piece of furniture.  He chewed on the eggs, his eyes fixed on the mess Sherlock had created after being back home for just a few hours.  He couldn't imagine what it would be like after a few days.  Wait, no, he did.  It would look just like it had back when Sherlock was still screaming at the crap telly playing in the corner.  He smiled and took another sip of his orange juice, reaching for his banana.

Sherlock slid into the seat in front of him, newspaper spread out in front of him.  John couldn’t see his face, but he knew his eyes were reading over the words at a mile a minute.  He set down his fork and scooted his plate of eggs across the table, nudging at the bottom of the newspaper.  Sherlock brought the paper up and to the side, his eyes staring down at the plate as John continued to push it forward until it stopped in front of him.  He looked up, his brow drawn together and John bit back a laugh.

“Eat.  You haven’t eaten yet.”

“That is because I don’t need to.”

“Yes you do.  Now eat.”

Sherlock looked ready to continue arguing but John kept his gaze steady and he gave, rotating the fork toward him and viciously stabbing away at the eggs.  But at least he was eating and John felt a smugness settle over him as Sherlock chewed away at the eggs like a grumpy five year old, the newspaper still clutched in his other hand.  Together they sat, munching on their own food just like old times and for a while it was enough.

The week went by faster than John expected and the next thing he knew, it was the day before New Year’s Eve.  He had wondered whether he should try to throw a party the next day or drag Sherlock off to someone else’s.  In the end, he decided neither would be the best.  Lestrade was still getting over the fact that Sherlock was alive, Molly was avoiding the both of them after admitting she knew the truth, Mrs. Hudson watched Sherlock as though he were a ghost, and Mycroft was being, well, himself.  John didn’t mind and he knew that Sherlock would be overjoyed.  He may have liked to show off around others, but he also loved the simplicity of being without them.

John wasn’t far in front of Lestrade with accepting Sherlock back business.  There were days where he saw the man out of the corner of his eye and nearly broke his neck trying to look over fast enough.  He had broken two cup already in shock, standing tired in the kitchen, waiting for the water to boil when Sherlock would come in, stretching and yawning.  During those times he often forgot to make two cups instead of just one.  He had remembered a few times after he had sat down with his own cup to take a sip before almost spitting the liquid out in realization and running back to pour another tea to set out in front of Sherlock.  Often it sat there all day, growing cold, and sometimes John would stare at it when Sherlock was out of the room, wondering if he was mad or if Sherlock was just being himself and not drinking or eating for days.  Maybe he was just setting out another cup for no one.

Sherlock had noticed that after a few days and began to drink all the tea given to him immediately, John always coming to find an empty cup and taking it to the sink with a smile on his face.  Those were the times John liked the most, when Sherlock would see something that needed to be done and actually do it.  Now if only John could find some way to make the man clean up his own messes around the house.  Even he knew that was a long shot.  It was one thing for the man to drink the tea offered to him and a whole other thing for him to actually stop cluttering up the space.

So New Years Eve arrived and they sat around the flat with no plans.  Mrs. Hudson had left earlier to spend the night with Mrs. Turner next door, so the two had the building to themselves.  As she had left, she had told John to keep an eye on Sherlock and make sure he didn’t do anything dangerous.  She might as well have told John to teach Sherlock how to not be an annoying git most of the time.  They were well stocked up on everything they would need for the celebration, or what small one they would have.  John had already broke out the champagne and wine, slowly downing his third glass.  Sherlock had barely started his first.

They had moved the sofa over, scooting the arm chairs out of the way so they could sit on the sofa together, the TV moved out in front of them.  Right now, an hour away from midnight, it was boring.  Nothing but reporters talking away about how beautiful the lights were this year.  Basically the same things they said every year.  John sighed and tipped back the glass, finishing the wine in his glass before pouring himself another.  He could feel Sherlock’s gaze on him, but he chose to ignore it, already taking a sip from his glass.  They talked a little, trying to catch up even more on what they had done during the past few years without each other.  John had to admit that Sherlock’s stories were a lot more riveting than his own, full of failed dating attempts and yelling at the grocery store machines again, but at least they made Sherlock smile.  He had almost forgotten how much he loved Sherlock’s smile.

But, finally, the last few minutes came around and John moved around, turning off all the lights so their focus was just on the screen.  The world outside was quiet, as though everyone was taking a collective breath as they waited for the New Year to roll in.  John was nicely drunk at this point, and he suspected Sherlock had drunk half his drink and dumped the other half out in a poor, unsuspecting plant just so he could have a second glass and let John not feel as bad for being on his sixth.  John appreciated it, but it really didn’t change much.

They were sitting closer to each other on the sofa than was probably normal, their shoulders pressed against each others as John leaned into the taller man, their hands on the sofa between them, so close they could feet the warmth of the other.  Sometime during the last two minutes, John wasn’t really sure anymore at this point, their fingers found each other, weaving together as though they had done it millions of times before.

“You know, there’s this belief that couples should kiss at the stroke of midnight and if you don’t, you’ll have a year of loneliness,” John tipped back his head and laughed, “Remember how many people thought we were a couple?”  His smile was gone now, “Remember how alone we were?”

He was talking about two different times now, but the way he talked made it seem like they were one and the same and Sherlock had to look away from the man, focusing back on the TV.  But his fingers squeezed around John’s in what he hoped was comfort and was pleased when John squeezed back.  One minute now.  Suddenly, John began to hum a tune and Sherlock looked back at him in amazement.  John was looking at the TV, but the touch of his hand was letting Sherlock know all his attention was on him.

“Should old acquaintance be forgot,” John started singing and Sherlock recognized the tune, “and never brought to mind?”  He hiccupped and wiped at his face.  Sherlock was startled to see tears forming in the doctor’s eyes.  He turned his body toward John, trying to figure out what to dot.

“Should old acquaintance be forgot, and old lang syne?”

“For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne.”  Sherlock joined in, singing the chorus and John looked up at him, a hint of a smile starting to pull at his lips.

“And surely you'll buy your pint cup!  And surely I'll buy mine!  And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne,” John finished and then together they sang, skipping over the chorus in favor of the main song.

“We two have run about the slopes, and picked the daisies fine.  But we've wandered many a weary foot, since auld lang syne.  We two have paddled in the stream, from morning sun till dine.  But seas between us broad have roared  
since auld lang syne.  And there's a hand my trusty friend!  And give us a hand o' thine !  And we'll take a right good-will draught, for auld lang syne.”

They finished just as the countdown from ten had begun, their eyes never leaving the others and, on the stroke of midnight, Sherlock grasped John by the back of his neck and pulled him forward into his chest.  He kissed the man on the forehead and grasped him tight.

“I hope that kiss will do,” he said, his voice wavering for once as he tried to think of what he had done.  Had John wanted this when he mentioned the tradition?  Or had he just been mentioning it?  Perhaps he wanted more than just a kiss on the head?  But Sherlock couldn’t do that, couldn’t take that step.  He had just gotten John back.  He didn’t want to ruin it already.  But John was clutching at him, nodding into his chest, hands tangled in the front of Sherlock’s shirt.

“I’m sure that will be fine,” He heard the muffled reply and his heart soared.

The crowd on the TV was cheering and they could hear others outside their flat as well, cheering in the New Year.  Suddenly, John pulled away, slapping his drink down on the table.  It had been forgotten on the sofa and had nearly fallen over in their embrace.

“If you ever see me drinking like this again, you have permission to hit me,” John slurred before jumping up, moving into the kitchen.  He pulled on drawers and opened cabinets until almost every one was open until he finally found what he had been looking for.  He held it up in triumph and Sherlock stared at the black rock held proudly in John’s hands.  Coal, from one of his upcoming experiments.  His mind arrived at the conclusion before John had even brought the coal back down.

“No,” was all he said, quickly getting up to disappear into his bedroom for the rest of the day.

“Oh come on.  Just take the coal, go outside, and press the doorbell.  It’s all just for fun.”

“No!”

John threw himself at Sherlock, pulling at him to keep him in the room, “Hurry up and just do it or Mrs. Hudson will be the first one back.”

“No, I refuse!”  Sherlock tried to squirm out of his hold, but even he was no match for a drunk John.  There was a reason he had been a Captain.  He found himself on the ground, John over him, pinning him down.  He smelt of alcohol, with just a hint of tea and spices, probably spilt on his jumper during one of his fits when he saw Sherlock in his vision.  He smelt like John, except with alcohol thrown into the mix.  John was leaning down dangerously close, face inches from Sherlock’s.

“Just take the damn rock outside to please me,” he growled and Sherlock pouted.

“Fine.”

John grinned and then his lips were on Sherlock’s cheekbone and he had barely enough time to process the touch before John was up, holding out a hand to help Sherlock off the floor.  He smiled, shook his head, and took the offered hand.

**Author's Note:**

> The coal is for a thing called "First Footing."  
> There is an old superstition in Scotland and some other parts of the UK that the first person to enter someone's home on New Year's Day will bring all the luck for the coming year with them. This person is known as the first footer.  
> Dark haired people are thought to be the luckiest first footers, and it is traditional to carry a lump of coal when going first footing.
> 
> Hence, Sherlock has to do it.


End file.
